My National Boyfriend

It was already 11 AM when Rabin finally opened his eyes.

The sun filtered softly through the blinds, golden and warm, brushing over his skin like a quiet reminder that he had slept more peacefully than he had in years. No nightmares. No cold sweats. Just… silence.

He blinked a few times, sat up slowly, rubbing his neck, and shuffled toward the door. As he opened it and stepped into the living room, the smell hit him first—sautéed garlic, something spicy, maybe kimchi, maybe egg, something comforting.

His eyes moved toward the source.

There she was, standing in his kitchen. Her back to him. Hair slightly messy, tied up lazily. Wearing a loose t-shirt—maybe his, he wasn't sure—and moving around like she belonged there.

The clink of utensils, the soft simmering of soup on the stove, the gentle sound of a humming voice under her breath.

Rabin (thoughts):

"This view… why does it feel so beautiful? So familiar? So… home?"

He leaned against the wall, silently watching.

There was a soft ache in his chest.

Not the ache of pain, but of fear.

Fear that this might be just a moment.

And not a forever.

She turned halfway, catching him staring.

Rabin (softly): "Morning…"

Her eyes held his for a second longer than usual…The memory of last night lingered between them—heavy, unspoken.

Her tears…His truth.

The shadows of four years finally unwrapped.

Y/N (quietly, forcing a soft smile): "Oh… you're awake. I made lunch. Let's eat together."

He nodded slowly, stepping into the kitchen like he was still unsure if he was allowed to.

The table was already half set. Bowls, spoons, two glasses of water.

She pulled out a chair for him without looking, and he sat.

For a few minutes, the only sound was the clinking of spoons and the faint bubbling from the pot still warming on the stove.

Rabin (murmuring): "You didn't have to… but thank you."

Y/N: "You were hungry at 3 a.m. I figured you might wake up the same way."

He tried to smile, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.

Rabin: "About last night—"

Y/N (cutting softly): "Let's… not talk about it now. Just eat."

A beat of silence.

He nodded.

They both began to eat, slowly, carefully.

The food was warm. Spicy.

Like a pause in the middle of a storm.

But the air between them—it wasn't heavy anymore.

Just fragile 

Just like that, the afternoon passed…

There wasn't much talk, just quiet glances and unspoken thoughts.

After lunch, Y/N stood up and began clearing the dishes.

Y/N: "I should get back."

Rabin looked up, his chopsticks still in his hand.

Rabin: "Already?"

Y/N: "Yeah… our belongings are still at my house, remember?"

She glanced at him.

"We left in the middle of the night… didn't exactly pack."

A faint smile crossed his lips.

Rabin: "I'll drive you."

Y/N: "No need. I'll be fine."

Rabin: "Still. I will."

She didn't argue further. 

Just before they stepped out the door, she paused, her hand on the knob.

Beep.

Rabin pressed the screen of the security monitor.

And there they were—paparazzi, a whole swarm of them, crowding the entrance like vultures.

Rabin (low, tense): "Shit…"

Cameras flashed even though no one had stepped outside yet, just in case. The tension between them grew thicker.

Rabin: "We can't go out like this."

Y/N's eyes scanned the screen. Her lips pressed together in calm resolve.

Y/N: "You stay back."

Rabin blinked.

Y/N: "I'll go through the back door and take the stairs down. It's just a few floors—people won't notice."

Rabin (frowning): "Are you crazy? You'll go out alone?"

Y/N (flatly): "I didn't ask you to follow."

He opened his mouth to protest, but stopped.

There was something in her tone. She didn't mean it cold—she just meant it smart.

Y/N: "If you go now, it'll explode. They'll hound you. Then they'll hound me. That's not what either of us wants."

He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, biting his lip.

Rabin: "…I'll wait for your text."

She gave a small nod, grabbed her bag, and walked to the back.

Just before she disappeared, she looked over her shoulder.

Then she slipped out the door.

Rabin stood alone in the room, the sound of camera shutters still echoing through the monitor.

And suddenly, the space felt too quiet.

He whispered to himself—

"Just go safely."

Time ticked slowly in the apartment.

After hours of silence—no text, no call—Rabin paced, checked the monitor, paced again. The quiet was louder than any shouting.

He finally gave up and went to the kitchen, opening the fridge with one hand, scratching the back of his neck with the other. He poured a glass of water, grabbed a protein bar, and leaned against the counter.

And then—

DING.

He nearly dropped the glass.

He swiped up his phone immediately.

Y/N:

"I will be staying here till Thursday… so rest this week. You have an interview on Saturday. Friday, let's prepare for the interview. I'll contact our manager too."

He stared at the message for a long time.

No emojis. No "take care." No warmth.

Just business.

Rabin sat on the stool, thumb hovering over the keyboard, but he didn't type anything.

He leaned back in the chair, a bitter smile playing on his lips.

The glass of water sat untouched on the counter beside him.

Cold.

Just like her message.

Finally, after minutes of silence and an aching chest, Rabin gave in.

He typed.

Rabin:

"How will I survive without you… my fridge is empty…"

He waited. Not even thirty seconds passed before his phone buzzed again.

Y/N:

"Did you really check the fridge?"

Rabin blinked.

"…Huh?"

He walked—no, rushed—toward the fridge, yanked it open like a man starved.

And there it was.

Fully. Stocked.

Labeled tupperware. Cut fruits. Juices. Rice neatly packed. Eggs. Side dishes. Even a post-it note stuck to one container that read:

"Heat only for 2 mins or it'll taste weird – Y/N."

Rabin:

"Daaamn…"

Rabin stared at the fridge door, still slightly ajar.

The cold air kissed his skin—but it wasn't what gave him the chill.

His thumbs tapped quickly on his screen.

Rabin:

"But my iPad is there… I forgot to bring it."

A minute passed.

Then came the reply.

Y/N:

"Rabin… I want to be alone for some days."

That was it.

No emojis.

No "don't worry."

No softness.

Just… space.

He stood there, frozen.

His phone screen dimmed.

He didn't tap anything back.

He couldn't.

His chest ached—not in a dramatic, movie-scene way.

But in that quiet, gnawing ache… the one that comes when someone gently steps away before you're ready to let them go.

Rabin walked back toward the couch, phone still in his hand, and slumped down.

He didn't open the container anymore.

He just stared at the ceiling, the silence louder than ever.

Y/N House

"I need some space… for real."

The thought echoed in her mind as she leaned her head against the fridge for a moment before pulling it open.

She took out a can of beer, popped it open with a hiss, and let the bitterness coat her tongue.

Then she grabbed the Jollibee takeout from the brown bag she brought on the way—greasy, crispy, comforting.

She sat down on the floor, laptop on the low table in front of her, papers scattered beside it.

There was no music.

No TV noise.

Just the soft ticking of the clock and the occasional clink of her fork against the takeout box.

She exhaled and clicked open a document titled:

"Interview Prep – Rabin Angeles"

Because like it or not… the #NationsBoyfie scandal wasn't over yet.

The agency was buying time, but public memory was short only if you guided it right.

She opened another tab. Typed in:

"How to handle dating scandal questions with grace."

Rabin doesn't like scripts, she thought.

But this time, he needs one.

The morning sunlight trickled through the curtains, piercing gently through her eyelids.

She groaned, shifting her stiff neck and slowly opened her eyes—

Only to realize she was still at the table, head resting over half-finished notes and cold Jollibee fries.

Her arms were sore, her head ached, and her back protested with every stretch.

"Ugh… great."

She sat up, blinking at the crumpled screen of her laptop still glowing faintly.

Had she even turned it off? She couldn't remember.

She stumbled to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water, and gulped it down slowly. The cold helped—slightly.

Out of habit, she checked her phone.

No messages.

No calls.

Not even a dot from Devil Boss.

Just as she was about to toss the phone aside—

Ding.

A message popped up.

Manager: "Y/N, come to the office on Thursday. I'll be there. We need to confirm Rabin's schedule."

She stared at the message for a second.

Thursday. That meant tomorrow.

She had the rest of the day to breathe.

Or pretend to.

She locked her phone and sighed.

"Okay. Assistant mode on."

Thursday Evening — Agency Office

The elevator dinged as Y/N stepped out, adjusting her tote bag on her shoulder. Her expression was neutral, but the office atmosphere screamed chaos.

Phones ringing.

Assistants scrambling.

Whispers about trending hashtags, endorsement pull-outs, and the media waiting outside.

As if the "#NationsBoyfie" chaos had finally cracked the roof.

She walked calmly through the hallway, heels clicking softly until she reached the Manager's office.

She raised her hand and knocked—three quick taps.

From inside:

"Come in."

Y/N entered, holding a neat folder in one hand.

Manager: "Ah, Y/N. Sit."

Without delay, Y/N placed the folder on the desk and slid over a color-coded rescheduled timetable for Rabin.

Y/N: "Here's the revised schedule. Media appearance moved to next week.Interview is on Saturday instead of today ..Script reading is slotted for Sunday instead of Friday to give him mental space. And the flight schedule to seoul for recording remains on Monday ."

The manager flipped through it briefly, nodding.

Manager: "Good. We'll go with this."

She closed the folder, looking up.

Manager: "But listen… you need to be extra careful starting now."

Y/N's brows twitched slightly.

"Careful?"

Manager (firm):

"Don't let anyone enter Rabin's lounge while he's in the studio. Not staff, not even co-artists. Not unless you authorize it."

Y/N nodded slowly, understanding the hidden implication.

They weren't just protecting Rabin from gossip.

They were shielding the brand.

The image.

The pressure cooker he was now trapped in.

Y/N: "Understood. I'll handle it."

Manager: "Good. And… keep him grounded. You're the only one who can."

Y/N looked away for a second, unsure what that really meant anymore.

Y/N (softly): "I'll do my best."

Y/N exited the agency building just as the city lights flickered on, glowing against the dusky sky.

The noise of the traffic, the flash of a few photographers outside the main entrance—it all blurred into background static.

Her steps were slow, not tired—but uncertain.

She kept walking, one foot after another, until she reached the sidewalk where the road split—

Left, towards his apartment.

Right, toward hers.

She paused at the corner, standing under the orange streetlamp.

"Should I go see him?"

She looked at her phone again.

No new messages.

"Tomorrow," she told herself.

"I'll go to him tomorrow."

Rabin POV

It's already Thursday…I stared at the ceiling again, lying flat on the couch like it owed me answers.

My phone rested on my chest, silent and still.

My thoughts kept circling like vultures above my head—

She's coming back tomorrow…

I checked the time: 9:42 PM

Too late to call?

Too early to sleep.

I opened the fridge again—second time in ten minutes. Still full.

Tomorrow.

I'll wait for tomorrow.

Even if it feels like the longest night of my life..